


The Westphalian Affair

by Sath



Series: Mops, an Adventure [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Crossdressing, Fake Ghosts, Fake Marriage, Fencing, Inheritance, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pugs, Sexual Tension, german jokes, long carriage rides, whoops we only got a room with one bed trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2838104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a Prussian Baroness steals Courfeyrac's dog, Courfeyrac and his loyal friend Marius undertake a long winter's journey to her Westphalian estate in order to retrieve their own pup. Along the way, they encounter inadequate lodgings, women in trousers, and moments of sexual tension. The Baroness, however, has her own plans for the two, involving marriage and perhaps even a murder in order to inherit her grandfather's estates - and her grandfather has his own grievance with the Courfeyracs...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. face to face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twofrontteethstillcrooked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A bad end](https://archiveofourown.org/works/766428) by [acaramelmacchiato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato). 



_To my very masculine grandson, Alexander:_

_As I am an old man with few friends, many enemies, and no surviving children, you are my sole heir. This is not an entirely undesirable result, as your father was an exceedingly poor shot with a rifle and disgraced himself in his first and only duel by dying. You, in contrast, have taken to all the manly arts with aplomb._

_Your inheritance comes with but one stipulation: that you restore our family’s honor. As you are well aware, the de Courfeyracs are our bitter enemies and stealers of dogs. I demand that you return my dog, Karloman, into the family fold, and marry one of the granddaughters of that heinous libertine, Patroclus-Bénigne de Courfeyrac. On your wedding night, the bride must meet with an unfortunate and fatal accident. If all these conditions are met, you will come into my fortune, with all respective titles, remaining honors, and fine Pug dogs._

_Signed,_

_Manfred von Schwarzwald_

Alexandra sighed, holding the letter well away from her face to avoid the smell of the sickroom.  

Großvater Manfred had long been somewhat deranged, always calling for revenge against the de Courfeyracs for a slight “too odious to recount.” There was also his earnest belief that Alexandra was male, which she was completely indisposed towards clearing up for him when there were vast sums of money at stake. She would even humor Manfred’s strange delusion that Karl, the pug which she had recently seized from the grandson of Manfred’s enemy, was in fact the same animal as Karloman, who was stolen from the family some fifty years previously. However, wedding a female grandCourfeyrac would prove quite difficult, since there were none. Courfeyrac himself was afflicted with a cleft chin and prominent Adam’s apple, so putting him in a dress wouldn’t fool even the most myopic pastor. His friend, Pontmercy, on the other hand…

She would wait for Courfeyrac to discover his dog had been switched with another - no need to make another long trip to Paris when thwarted honor would bring Courfeyrac to her doorstep.

 

* * *

 

The imposter dog who had replaced Carl was driving Marius to distraction. He was unable to study, because the doppelCarl insisted upon sitting on his lap. The dog licked Marius’s pen. The dog slept in Marius’s bed. And yet despite all the bizarre, un-Carl behavior of the dog, Courfeyrac had yet to discover that his own beast was missing. Marius kept hoping Courfeyrac would realize the switch himself and spare them the embarrassment of Marius revealing it.

“Can’t you recognize your own dog?” Marius finally snapped over a breakfast of pain au chocolat, which the dog was trying to steal from him.

Courfeyrac looked wounded. “I admit Carl has not been himself since Alexandra broke into our apartment, but I cannot see any difference in his visage.”

“His face is almost entirely changed. This is Alexandra’s dog, Fritzi von Mopsdorf.” Marius held Fritzi’s head in his hands so Courfeyrac could inspect him, though Fritzi made it difficult by trying to lick Marius.

With furrowed brows, Courfeyrac leaned closer to the dog, then reached out to feel the rolls of Fritzi’s neck. Courfeyrac had rarely looked so strained. A few strange incidences slowly began to make sense to Marius - the time he had borrowed Combeferre’s coat and Courfeyrac had mistaken the two of them, how Courfeyrac had called their favorite patissier the wrong name after he’d changed his apron, and then the confusion after Joly had styled his hair differently…

“My friend,” Marius said, hoping to soften the blow, “do you have trouble recognizing faces?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened and he withdrew his hands. Marius began to stammer out a retraction, except Courfeyrac abruptly grinned and thumped Marius’s shoulder. “You’re the first to guess! I’ve always said you were smarter than your Caravaggesque curls suggested. Yes, it is a family affliction, along with alcoholism and the propensity for feuds. My father has mistaken me for a hat on many occasions. Formidable, Marius, formidable. I will defer to your judgment and admit that this imposter is not my Carl. To be truthful, I had long suspected his sudden affection for you, but I could not judge him for his choice.”

Marius suspected he had a heart problem, because it was beating quite fast for no good reason at all. Courfeyrac rushed for his coat and dragged out his valise, throwing his second-best clothes inside with no attempt to fold.

“We are departing for Germany,” Courfeyrac announced. “Please hand me the dog.”

“What are you going to do with Fritzi?”

“Get him fitted for a coat. It’s very cold in Germany in December.”

 

* * *

 

Alexandra’s estate in Pödinghausen was some two weeks away by carriage, and for Marius, who’d never even been to Belgium before, she may as well have been living at the far ends of the Earth. His confidence that he’d be able to speak to Germans was also shaken when he experienced the many accents of Germany for the first time. By the time they got to a hotel in Westphalia, he was barely able to communicate that they needed a room for the night. The situation turned even worse when Courfeyrac arrived with Fritzi, who was smartly dressed in a red velvet coat.

“Keine Hunde erlaubt im Hotel,” the concierge repeated, even more slowly. His accent was even more unintelligible than the last one.

“Doch… euh, aber,” Marius said, grasping for both words and an argument while Courfeyrac walked up to the desk. He put Fritzi on the counter in front of the irritated concierge.

“Das ist kein Hund, das ist ein kleinwüchsiger, fetter Herr in einem Wintermantel,” Courfeyrac said in preeminently passable German. When the concierge failed to agree with him, Courfeyrac flipped Fritzi’s collar forward. “Das. Ist. Ein. Herr.”

“Don’t tell me cunteries,” the concierge replied in French. “Does he bark?”

“Not at all,” said Courfeyrac.

The concierge rolled his eyes and held his hands forward for a bribe. “If you’re caught, I’ll say you checked in with a third man. In a winter coat.”

“You know,” Courfeyrac added as they went up the stairs to their room, “I don’t think Fritzi is dignified at all. Carl would have made his nature known immediately.”

Courfeyrac’s words were so honestly meant Marius had a coughing fit which lasted until they opened the door and saw that the concierge, in his revenge, had assigned them to a room with only one bed.

“What are we going to do?” Marius asked, taking in the ominously small size of the bed.

“Do?” Courfeyrac said, tilting his head with a nonplussed expression. “Get some rest, I suppose. Did you want to play cards instead?”

“There’s only one bed.”

“So?” Courfeyrac seemed to have no idea of the seriousness of the situation. “Have you never shared a bed with anyone before?”

“Of course not! I’ve never… been with another person. As you know.”

“Ah! I see what you mean. My dear fellow, there need not be anything lascivious in two young men sharing a bed. It’s quite normal in some circles - Enjolras and I have bunked together many a time, and we’ve yet to sin against each other.”

“Oh.” Marius looked to the bed, then looked to Courfeyrac, then back to the bed. “It’s normal?”

Courfeyrac nodded his head, focusing his attention on getting Fritzi settled rather than the yawning gaps between Marius’s experiences and most normal young men of his age. Marius was reassured that there was nothing strange about climbing into bed with another man, since Courfeyrac felt it was of no consequence at all. He suspected Courfeyrac was paying extra attention to Marius’s ease, making sure Marius drank some mulled wine over a few games of cards. Nothing awkward would come of their night together; after all, they’d already spent a week in each other’s constant presence. This was nothing new, and Marius could swallow his inexperience.

“I’m for bed. We’ve got one day more of braving the Northern snow and sweating horseflesh before we can reclaim Carl. My god, there needs to be a way of transversing the country which discards the horse entirely. Perhaps the hot air balloon will soon master the skies, and we could go to Vienna for sachertorte and be back in time for dinner.” Courfeyrac got to his feet and lifted up his chin to undo his necktie, exposing a small nick where he must have cut himself shaving. He watched Courfeyrac’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, then shrugged off his waistcoat. Courfeyrac smiled when he noticed Marius’s eyes on him. “I’m being absurd, of course. Do you have a preference for a certain position in bed?”

Marius considered the polish on the wood of the floor. His face was burning.

“I prefer to sleep facing the door, if that wouldn’t put you out,” Courfeyrac added.

“That’s fine,” Marius replied, putting his face in his hands. “You are—that is—there is a lot in my head right now.”

"That’s not unusual for you, dear Marius,” Courfeyrac said. “My father always insisted there was great virtue in thinking only of the surface of things, though I think it better to exercise one’s brain in all directions.”

“I don’t know whether I’m on the surface or in the depths.”

Courfeyrac dropped to his knees so Marius would have to look at him, and gently took Marius’s hands away from his eyes. “What’s troubling you? Is it the Germans? Weather? Do you miss Carl?”

“Do people like Alexandra go to Hell?” Marius asked.

“For what, wearing trousers?”

“Loving other women.”

"Ah, she did not mention that to me.” Something like fear or concern came into Courfeyrac’s expression, and he squeezed Marius’s hands. “I am not a priest, and have no authority to speak for God, but I think that if we went to Hell for everything the Church says we would there’d be no room for the murderers and shellfish-eaters.”

Marius laughed nervously. “Have you ever known anyone with… the vice… who was happy? And not eccentric?”

“Well, it’s hardly courteous to advertise what one likes in bed, unless you’re at one of those affairs where you wear colored kerchiefs. I once kissed a boy from my fencing class and I thought my life was over, until I went to my father and he said that we Courfeyracs tend to be undiscerning in our interests, and so long as I gave him a grandson and never spoke to him about it again, there would be no more need to act the Gothic heroine under his roof.”

There went Marius’s heart again, fluttering about like a canary in a cage. “Are you still undiscerning?” Marius said, scandalizing himself with his own temerity.

“And happy, but you might think me a little eccentric.” Courfeyrac smiled again, this time with a disarming friendliness. “Is it Alexandra who’s discomfited you, or is it me? Never mind - I should not have asked,” he said, standing back up. “You are younger than your years, Marius, and I am certain you will forget about all such feelings in one coup de foudre. No, my friend, I will not take advantage of the derangements of segregated education when a pretty girl will soon have you right with the teachings of Christ Jesus.”

The sound Marius made was somewhere between consternation and bewilderment, and he hoped a touch of indignation. Marius was not as worldly as Courfeyrac, to be certain, but who was? Though he had had hardly any contact with women his own age, he was confident that they would have made their appeal known at some point during Courfeyrac’s unknowing erotic bedevilments. No, the comfortable married life would not be for Marius, who enjoyed wearing women’s clothing and had translated German buggery manuals. He had to be honest with himself on all counts.

Marius fisted Courfeyrac’s indecorously exposed shirt and pulled him closer, realizing for the first time that when they were both standing upright, and Marius was full of conviction, he was the taller of the two, if only slightly. He brought their lips together, hoping he had not misjudged Courfeyrac’s reluctance for rejection. But Courfeyrac, ever generous, drew the gesture into a kiss. It was so late in the evening Marius could feel the faint stubble around Courfeyrac’s mouth, a thrilling physical reminder that their friendship was approaching the Greeks. Courfeyrac’s experience made up for Marius’s innocence, his hands inexorably traveling downwards to grab at his buttocks. Marius was so surprised he pitched forward, sending both of them to the floor with rapidity.

“Son of a disgraced prostitute, my tailbone broke our fall,” Courfeyrac gasped. “A lesson learned: seize no behind lest ye first prepare your own. Fritzi, please: allow us our dignity.”

Fritzi continued licking Courfeyrac’s face without remit.

“I think this is a sign that we should go to bed,” Courfeyrac said, raising his eyebrows, “until emotions have cooled.”

It took Courfeyrac a long time to say his piece, as Fritzi liked to go for his mouth.

“This is entirely unlike the German sex manuals,” Marius replied. “Except for the dog.”

“If we wait, there will be no dog. Carl is uninterested in human congress.”

“Are you implying you wish to be… congressional with me?”

Courfeyrac discreetly coughed into Fritzi’s neck rolls. “Marius, I am tired, and my backside is quite sore. We can discuss this tomorrow.”

Marius rolled off Courfeyrac, entirely disconcerted. “But it’s the same bed.”

“For that, there is a solution.” Courfeyrac tucked Fritzi under his arm and placed him in the center of the bed. “Voilà, our chaperone.”

It was fitting that Marius should spend his first night as a deviant in a Hell of his own devising.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Marius gets married. But will he survive the wedding night?
> 
> Like Marius, I will do some translations from the German (I make no claims to understand German, but some of my friends do!): 
> 
> Keine Hunde erlaubt im Hotel - no dogs allowed in the hotel
> 
> Doch… euh, aber - Marius is here struggling with two different words for 'but', and 'euh' is the French equivalent of 'um'. Obviously I think I'm being hilarious here. 
> 
> Das ist kein Hund, das ist ein kleinwüchsiger, fetter Herr in einem Wintermantel - This is not a dog, this is a short, fat gentleman in a winter coat. 
> 
> Das. Ist. Ein. Herr. - This. Is. A. Gentleman. 
> 
> When the concierge says, "don't tell me cunteries," this is an entirely clumsy way of communicating that he is literally saying "ne me raconte pas des conneries." Because the fic is in English and everyone's speaking English and yet THEY'RE ALL ACTUALLY SPEAKING FRENCH. (I'm an ass) This is also why Courfeyrac says 'formidable' with entirely un-Anglophone frequency.


	2. judgment of paris

Hell continued; Marius thought of Paolo and Francesca, separated by the brutal winds of damnation. But who then, was Paolo, and who Francesca? What then, had been their inspirational Lancelot? Had Marius exposed himself to too much temptation in his study of Greek verses, or had it been the German spanking pornography he had translated for a gentleman with tremendously sweaty palms and a neurasthenic demeanor?

Regardless, Marius’s inner fires were quenched by Fritzi’s behind, which the dog had used to relentlessly intercede between Marius, Courfeyrac, and mortal sin. Fritzi had not moved during the entirety of the long night in a shared bed, and now he sat between Marius and Courfeyrac on the carriage. Not that they could have gotten up to much devilment with two Englishwomen across from them, who alternated between consulting their Baedekers and practicing their French on Courfeyrac. Misses Honeychurch and Bartlett, as they had eagerly introduced themselves, were fraying even Courfeyrac’s _noblesse oblige_.

“The French are so romantic,” Miss Honeychurch informed them. “You are so passionate and free of restraint.”

Courfeyrac laid his gloved hand upon Fritzi’s back. “On the contrary, mademoiselles, we have made restraint into its own passion. Did Lancelot not restrain himself from making love to Guinevere for many years?”

The Englishwomen made a show of returning to their Baedekers as Marius’s spirits soared high above the carriage. “You have also enjoyed Chrétien?” Marius asked. At Courfeyrac’s nod, Marius boldly allowed his fingers to brush against Courfeyrac’s. Fritzi, for once, would be complicit. “When Lancelot did give into his feelings, as you know, he tore through iron bars. And despoiled Guinevere’s bed.”

Courfeyrac crossed his legs and muttered that it had been a different time, and Lancelot unusually overdeveloped in by his adventuring.

“Perhaps it was all the restraint,” Miss Bartlett said. “Lancelot must have learned that in England.”

“Not the despoiling, I’m sure,” Miss Honeychurch added with a sigh.

 

* * *

 

_Pödinghausen_.

They were there. They had arrived. Marius’s legs felt wobbly from hours of riding, torment, and English. In contrast, Courfeyrac looked refreshed.

“Now, my dearest Marius, we may begin our adventure,” Courfeyrac said, rubbing his hands together. It was quite cold, after all. “We shall not look for Alexandra at her estate. No, she will most likely be at a gambling house. There is also the potential for visiting a bordello, but it is probably too early in the day. Marius, I advise you to hold on to both purse and judgment.”

Marius had forgotten his purse entirely. His judgment was also still in Paris. “Can I hold Fritzi?”

“I was just about to ask,” Courfeyrac replied. Marius immediately stuffed his chilled fingers in between Fritzi’s chest fat and his winter coat. Although Marius technically had gloves, they were still waiting to be picked up at Staub’s, and he had not cared to borrow yet another pair from Courfeyrac. Fritzi snorted in protest; perhaps Marius had accidentally nicked a nipple. “How do we find the nearest den of iniquity?”

“Easily done. We must take the measure of the town and feel the air for decadence.” As a man stumbled out of an unmarked door in an unremarkable building with a very active chimney, Courfeyrac put an arm around Marius and pulled him closer. “Pödinghausen has four streets, and this is the only one exhibiting the touch of Bacchus, with no pub signs in sight.”

“Did you ask the cabby?”

“Yes. But observation confirms information. You are becoming somewhat incredulous.”

“I’m sorry,” Marius said, thoughts askew from the warmth of Courfeyrac’s breath against his ear.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about, my friend. Soon, you shan’t need me at all. Let’s go in.”

Although Marius had never been in a gambling den before, he recognized immediately that they were in one. Not only was the gambling paraphernalia evident (cards, strange wheels, loose women), but it seemed everyone was smoking oversized cigars.

Including Alexandra, who was wearing a fine set of men’s clothing while she held on to a prostitute with one arm and a hand of cards in another. The gentlemen at the table with her looked exceedingly worried about what Alexandra was holding.

“Baroness Alexandra of Pödinghausen, I demand the return of my dog!” Courfeyrac announced.

Alexandra threw her cards down on the table. “I fold,” she said with disinterest. When she finally turned to look at them, Fritzi gave an ambivalent wheeze, then licked Marius’s face. “I confess that you took so long to discover the theft of Karl that my circumstances have changed since our last meeting. You cannot imagine my relief that you have taken Marius with you.”

“Are you planning on stealing me too? I won’t agree to it.”

It seemed that it only took Courfeyrac three strides to cross the room, tear off one glove, and strike Alexandra’s shoulder with it. “I will have satisfaction! And my dog. And Marius, in case you are scheming to despoil him.”

Alexandra clapped her hands together. “ _Vorzüglich!_ A duel, for Karl and Marius.”

“Why are you dueling for me? I’m not even sure I can be dueled for - granted, Courfeyrac has granted me lodging so I suppose he could transfer my board to you…”

“For your hand in marriage, you pretty thing,” Alexandra replied.

“Excuse?” Courfeyrac bellowed while Marius clutched Fritzi in shock. “Choose your weapons, Baroness, before I turn this duel into an undignified wrestling match.”

She raised one eyebrow. “While that’s not a terrible idea, I have no experience grappling with men. Would sabers suit you?”

“Immensely.”

After giving an impressively long set of orders to her fellow gamblers and the prostitute, Alexandra led them down a narrow hallway that opened into a secret dueling ring. Her companions quickly set about lining the walls as spectators, while another one rushed in with a large wooden trunk.

“Tell me, Courfeyrac,” Alexandra asked as she took off her gloves and waistcoat, “have you ever dueled a German with sabers before?”

“It is one of my narrow corners of virginity.”

Alexandra laughed as Marius kept mulling over Courfeyrac saying ‘virginity.’ She donned something that looked like a leather apron, with a high neck to protect her throat. “We do not thrust with our swords, here in Germany. Instead, we strike with the sides, and I must warn you that they’re quite sharp. I’ve brought gear for you as well.”

Courfeyrac inspected the strange headgear presented to him: black metal goggles with a grille over the eyes, and a triangular cup for his nose. He was still fiddling with getting it to fit over the dignified Courfeyrac silhouette when Alexandra made a final declaration, her face looking like a forgotten demon of Hieronymous Bosch’s: “All strikes above the waist are allowed, except to the hands.To first blood, my good fellow.”

Then she assumed a fencing stance, her legs wide apart and one hand on her hip. Courfeyrac took but a moment to copy her, though Marius knew he’d only been trained in the use of the épée. Courfeyrac made a few experimental flicks of his wrist while he waited for the apparent referee, who was the prostitute Marius had seen earlier, to call the duel.

“Don’t fret, Marius - I come from a long line of successful duelists. Your hand is safe with mine,” Courfeyrac said.

Marius needed to sit down. There was nowhere to sit, so he backed up against the wall. “ _Bonam fortunam_ ,” Marius whispered.

Courfeyrac had just enough time to give a quick salute before the referee announced, “Begin!”

The sabers were so quick, Marius could hardly track them. He heard the noise well enough, the blades rattling against each other while Courfeyrac’s boots scuffed lightly over the floor. Alexandra was the more agile of the two, forcing Courfeyrac into a sequence of defensive parries that left him further and further unbalanced. It seemed that if blood was needed, it would be Courfeyrac’s. Marius began to contemplate married life to Alexandra, and even worse, with Fritzi. Would it be appropriate for him to petition the Virgin Mary for victory? Or would St. Francis be more understanding of Marius’s feelings about dogs?

A collective gasp went up as blood spattered over the floor. But whose was it? Alexandra was clutching her arm, her fingers reddened. Marius was saved! He turned to rejoice with Courfeyrac, but recoiled when he saw Courfeyrac’s face covered in blood, the whiteness of his grin the only relief.

“You are slain!” Marius said, his legs shifting under him. The floor was very close and the bloody ghost of Courfeyrac was shaking Marius’s shoulder.

“I’m hardly slain, although my hairline may have shifted,” the ghost insisted. “Are you fainting, Marius? _Parbleu_ , I’ve bled on your face and made things worse.”

 

* * *

 

When Marius awoke, Courfeyrac was back from the dead, albeit with a bandage wrapped around his forehead. It seemed they were at Alexandra’s country estate, judging by the many tapestries of pugs upon the wall and that the bed he was in could comfortably fit six of him.

“Scalp wounds bleed profusely,” Courfeyrac said while holding Marius’s hand. “I think Alexandra got the deeper nick, and for that, I apologize.”

“I’ve had worse,” Alexandra replied.

“So who won?” Marius asked.

“It was a draw,” said Alexandra. “I had not planned for that eventuality, but Courfeyrac and I came to an agreement while you were recovering from your shock. It’s equitable on all sides and will resolve many years of bad blood.”

Something far more important than a feud was on Marius’s mind. “But are you taking Fritzi back?”

“I thought we’d keep him. He’s much more amenable to wearing coats than Carl.”

Marius gasped and crossed his arms in distress. Misinterpreting the source of Marius’s angst, Courfeyrac rushed to reassure him that of course Carl would be coming home with them as well.

“What is my part in your agreement? Am I marrying Fritzi?”

“ _Le Nozze di Fritzaro_?” Courfeyrac had to laugh at his joke on his own, as Marius could only glare. “Nothing so absurd, Marius. You will once again don women’s clothing, pretending to be the sister I never had. Alexandra shall be declared your husband before the eyes of God and her monied, probably mostly blind grandfather, and then cruelly murder you on the wedding night.”

“I hope that both marriage and murder will be faked?”

Courfeyrac nodded his head. “The murder will be even more of a sham than your marriage.”

“What grudge does Alexandra’s grandfather have against the Courfeyracs?”

“I’ve wondered the same myself,” Alexandra said. “He’s nursed it for some sixty years or more, but insisted that the insult of Patroclus-Bénigne de Courfeyrac was unspeakable.”

“Perhaps for Manfred, but not for Pat-Bén.” Courfeyrac took a yellowed envelope out of his coat pocket and tapped it on the arm of his chair. “I took it upon myself to research the grand-insult after I found that cameo Marius had accidentally stolen from you - the portrait of Patroclus-Bénigne which had ‘revenge’ written on the back. You should know that my dear dead grandfather accidentally insulted many men and no small amount of women over his lifetime, and fought in over fifty duels. It became necessary for him to keep track of whom he had insulted and how. These records have been secreted all over the family manse, and we’re certain there’s more of them we haven’t yet found. This one, containing Pat-Bén’s insult to Manfred von Schwarzwald, was found between the pillows of one of the family récamiers. I shall read it to you in full.”

_Insult 57: How I Got a Dog_

_In January 1787, my dear friend Manfred de Séguiran_ (Courfeyrac paused to explain that this Manfred was Enjolras’s grandfather, and that their two families had long had intercourse with each other too complicated to recount on this current adventure) _and I decided to absent ourselves from France for a few months, as things seemed ready to blow up politically. We decided to go to Germany to see if any skiing were to be had, which we did. I must say, for a Provencal Marquis, Manfred has the most excellent legs for skiing. I digress._

_We were staying at the ski lodge of another Manfred, the Baron von Schwarzwald. He is most disagreeably Prussian and the shared nomenclature of Manfreds has led to many appallingly theatrical cases of mistaken identity. This, in fact, is why I am writing this note to myself. On that fateful January morn, I was informed by a servant that Manfred’s dog had finally arrived from Westphalia. Being a most ardent lover of dogs myself, I was thrilled that my Manfred, my dear Manfred, had finally decided to keep a dog, and questioned the servant as to the location of the new dog. When I arrived in the parlor, I was confronted with the most noble of animals: the Pug dog. The dog barely regarded me, so patrician was his bearing. At this point, my esteemed Manfred returned from a morning of rough langlaufen and said, “what a marvelously silly dog. Is he yours?” I pretended not to hear him and bundled the dog into my coat, where he farted prodigiously. “We ought to be going, Manfred - I have grown tired of confusing Manfreds, and I also intend to steal this dog.” Ah, my charming Marquis, how he laughed! We thoroughly stole the dog of Manfred von Schwarzwald._

_Distance and rumors of revolution did not keep Manfred von Schwarzwald from attempting to reclaim his dog. I was enjoying a fine spring party at the Duc d’Orléans when Manfred leapt out of the bushes and slapped me in the face with his glove. As I have never backed down from duel nor dog, I accepted the challenge. Manfred was a little better at dueling than skiing, but he still did quite a lot of falling over. It was only the first of many duels I had that day, as it was an excellent party of the sort we don’t have anymore. I recounted my adventure to a rapt audience later, including many spirited imitations of the worst combatants, which of course included Manfred and received much applause. Unfortunately, Manfred was among the audience and I had not recognized him. He parted the crowd, took off both gloves to slap me on each cheek, and declared a grudge between us unto the third generation. I would have pursued him had he not dived out the window and run through the gardens, where my footwear would not permit me to follow._

_If any of my grandchildren find this, I am sure they will be up to the task of defending the rights of de Courfeyracs to their dogs, stolen, won, and otherwise acquired._

The narrative at a close, Courfeyrac solemnly folded the letter and put it back in his coat. “A grievous insult, indeed. A dog theft is not easily forgotten.”

Alexandra had spent much of the reading with her handkerchief held to her mouth. As she removed it, Marius could see she had been discreetly laughing for much of the letter. “My poor, ridiculous grandfather. It falls to us to attend to his slights. Marius, I have procured a pastor with very few professional ethics and only a passing belief in the sanctimony of marriage. You may have your pick of the dresses in my boudoir; we are of a height. The wedding,” she said, pulling out her pocket watch, “is in two hours.”

“Two hours is more than enough time to get our bride properly besotted,” Courfeyrac added.

“I think that would be quite helpful,” Marius replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Marius _really_ get married, or will fate intervene? 
> 
> Misses Honeychurch and Bartlett belong to E. M. Forster's _A Room with a View_ , not me or Hugo. 
> 
> Paolo and Francesca are the property of Dante.
> 
> Courfeyrac and Marius are probably thinking either of either Marie de France or Chrétien de Troyes's takes on Lancelot and Guinevere (ok so specifically Courfeyrac is talking about Chrétien's _Le Chevalier de la charette_ ) but let's also pretend they're thinking of the superior versions in Malory. 
> 
> German fencing outfits are crazy, aren't they? Check out mensur if you're curious. Alexandra spent some time at Heidelberg university until they kicked her out for being a woman. Their loss!
> 
> boy do Courfeyrac and Enjolras have awesome grandads


	3. a haunted wedding

Had Marius been asked what he had expected would come of his close friendship with Courfeyrac, he would not have said ‘crossdressing.’ Perhaps ‘useful law connections’ or ‘meaningful discourse,’ but not women’s clothing and mortal sins. He was very concerned that he was about to enter into a fraudulent marriage, which absolutely did not hold with his belief in Our Lord Jesus Christ.

“Are you sure I won’t actually be married? We will be signing papers and taking vows as the ceremony is performed by an actual priest. Considering that my lecture attendance is markedly better than yours, Courfeyrac, I believe that I am to be legally bound to the Baroness.”

Alexandra roughly adjusted Marius’s bridal chignon. She was skilled at preparing Marius’s disguise, but brutally efficient. “I’d be worried myself, Marius, if I weren’t marrying a woman who doesn’t exist. There is no Marie de Courfeyrac.”

“But God knows.”

“God understands, my dear friend,” Courfeyrac said, leaning in to kiss the side of Marius’s cheek. Marius flushed and finished his glass of wine in a hurry, relieved he had to give no defense of his actions to Alexandra.

There wasn’t even time for Marius to admire his reflection before the three of them rushed into a carriage. Alexandra’s manly costume was even more convincing than usual, as Marius realized she’d never truly been trying to pass as a man before. Her hair had been tied back into an old-fashioned queue, and her bust flattened through some device. And while her body language had always seemed masculine to Marius, it was still more so now - Alexandra was behaving not like a scandalous _lionesse_ , but a gentleman of fine German breeding. Was gender some sort of… social construction?

No, Marius must simply be more drunk than he thought.

They arrived at a small chapel, where they were ushered into the foyer. According to plan, the pews were filled with well-dressed vagrants who’d been paid to impersonate members of the family Manfred was too blind and half-dead to recognize. Next to the pastor was a shriveled old man in a wheelchair, a patch over his left eye and Carl on his lap. Courfeyrac clasped Marius’s hand.

“It gladdens my heart to see Carl again. Soon he will return to us!” Courfeyrac murmured.

Carl lifted his head, something almost like gladness in his dark eyes, though he made no effort to stir from the lap of Manfred von Schwarzwald.

Alexandra left them to attend to Manfred, going on one knee and kissing his hand. Although she obscured her mouth as if she were whispering, her grandfather’s deafness ensured that everyone could hear what she told him. Her German was so loud Manfred had no trouble understanding it. “Beloved Großvater, I have brought the grandchildren of your most hated enemy thither. There will be blood this wedding night.”

“Isn’t that how they’re supposed to go? I told you I want her dead! If she’s not dead, you’ll get nothing,” Manfred said.

“I’m not talking about her virginity, I’m talking about her life’s blood. She will definitely be dead, Großvater.”

Manfred sulkily dragged his hands over Carl’s rolls of neckfat. Carl wheezed hard enough to be heard across the chapel. “I have waited so many years for this day, Alexander. Your father was not man enough to do this deed, and the insult would have gone unavenged.”

Alexandra gave a quick cough, concealing what Marius knew was a smile, and went to stand at the priest’s side.

“Shall we, my sweet sister?” Courfeyrac asked. Marius only nodded; they had previously agreed that Marius should talk as little as possible.

If Marius was a little unsteady as Courfeyrac walked him to the altar, he would ascribe it to drink, and not nerves. This was not a real wedding, after all. Real weddings were attended by angels and lit by the light of Heaven, two lovers swearing to be together until the tomb, etc. The current wedding was to be dealt with efficiently, and then Marius would be splattered with colored corn syrup.

The priest was also drunk. He looked from Alexandra to Marius with complete confusion. “We are gathered together here today, gathered together today before God, man and woman… gathered… here.”

“We are altogether gathered,” Alexandra said. “God extremely present. Do continue.”

The priest narrowed his eyes. “Which one of you is the groom?”

“The one paying you,” Alexandra hissed.

“So, do you, Alexander von Schwarzwald, Baron of Pödinghausen, generous benefactor, take,” the priest hummed as he looked over a note he’d scribbled on his hand, “Marie de Courfeyrac to be your lawfully wedded bride? To have and to hold, and do various other things?”

“I do.”

“That’s adequate. You’re married.”

Manfred clapped and wished them both good health as he winked with his remaining eye. He couldn’t wink very well, so one corner of his mouth twisted up with each wink. When Courfeyrac shook Manfred’s hand, Carl carefully, solemnly, laid his paw over Courfeyrac’s thumb. With visible emotion, Courfeyrac turned away to lead them out of the chapel.

“These are the times that try men’s souls,” Courfeyrac said as they left.

 

* * *

 

Marius was not expecting his wedding chamber to have more than one woman in it.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” he asked.

“Alexandra’s maid, Brunhilda,” the extra woman said. She appeared to be over forty and entirely done with mankind. “I’m to murder you.”

“Oh.” Marius nervously sat on the bed. “I hope you’ll be gentle with it.”

“Brunhilda, don’t scare him. He’s like a young stag with velvet still on his antlers. So pretty but no one will praise you for bringing him down,” Alexandra said. “Jokes that are too literal go over his head.”

“They do not,” Marius protested. “It’s the German. Nothing sounds friendly or well-meant.”

“And the French always sound so snide. Have you ever heard an American? I recommend you don’t. Nationality aside, I assure you this will be a gentle murder. Lie back on the bed so we can smear your throat with jam and then douse you with this syrup.”

Marius relaxed onto his back, then had to wiggle upwards because his corset made everything more difficult. Neither Alexandra nor Brunhilda lost their composure. Alexandra took out a paint brush and applied dark, sticky jam to his neck, as if he’d been slashed with a knife.

“Is this gooseberry?”

Alexandra spread some over his lips. “It’s lingonberry. Make sure you eat all the evidence - we don’t want to confuse Manfred.”

“Delicious.”

“Brunhilda, the bucket. Marius, close your eyes.”

The entire contents of the bucket were sloshed over Marius’s supine body, as if he were a pig trough and Brunhilda the peasant farmer. Marius spit out the syrup that’d gotten in his mouth, regretting that it hadn’t been jam.

“That was… very thorough, Brunhilda,” Alexandra said.

“How else are we going to get it into that thick Baron’s head that you’ve murdered your bride?”

“Do people even have that much blood in their bodies?”

Brunhilda balanced the bucket on her hip and looked down her nose at Alexandra, despite being shorter. “No. But Manfred is an idiot, and his senses are failing. Do it yourself next time if you’re such an expert on faking someone’s death.”

“Have you done this before?” Marius asked.

“I am a lady’s maid, Herr Pontmercy,” she said, clearly thinking that was an answer to the question.

“Marius, I’m about to wheel my grandfather in, so keep your eyes closed and try not to laugh. Damn, we forgot to cover me in syrup.” Alexandra rubbed her hands all over Marius’s skirts until they looked properly bloody. “Brunhilda, work up some horror.”

“Gladly.”

As soon as Alexandra’s footsteps grew quieter down the hall, Brunhilda began howling, beating her chest, and pulling out her hair. Marius was terrified. When the sound of a rusty brass wheelchair came closer, Brunhilda ran out of the room screaming. The wheelchair creaked louder.

“It is done,” Manfred said in voice thickened by phlegm. “Such a clean killing, my grandson, with hardly a drop of blood spilled. Take me closer.”

Alexandra pushed Marius near enough for him to hear Carl’s labored breathing.

“My curse fulfilled. The flower of the Courfeyracs, despoiled. Patroclus-Bénigne de Courfeyrac, if only you could see me now, triumphant at last!”

The rest of Manfred’s speech was lost in cackling. He had to break occasionally for a coughing fit, but it was in other respects a strong cackle for an old man. His cackling slowly receded into the distance. That was Marius’s cue to disappear into the secret tunnel built into one of Alexandra’s bookshelves.

He tiptoed into the corridor, checking to see if anyone would see him. The way clear, Marius ran out, his bare feet chilled by the floor. He was almost to the false bookshelf when a servant saw him and shrieked.

“Ghost!”

Marius waved his arms and keened. She fled, allowing Marius to slip into the nearest room. Heart pounding, Marius tried to think of ways to escape without haunting any more of Alexandra’s household staff. He was saved from making a decision when a grappling hook thudded against an unseasonably open window ledge.

“Courfeyrac?” Marius said, because he would be the best outcome.

“I am never otherwise,” Courfeyrac replied. “I heard a scream.”

“Someone thought I was a ghost.”

“I imagine being a ghost is not an entirely disagreeable existence, if one may still be seen,” Courfeyrac said, clambering into the room. “Now rest, rest, perturbed spirit, and allow me to lead you to the hidden doorway. Behind the false bookshelf is an underground tunnel which leads to a distant guest house, fully stocked with cheese and wine. I have even brought a lamp to light our way, and trousers to bring you back from the grave. I should have thought to bring a sponge for all that jam, however.”

He was grateful that Courfeyrac was there to guide him through the tunnel; though Marius assumed it was a straight line, it was too dark and curving for Marius to feel at all comfortable in their direction. At last, they went up a short flight of stairs and Courfeyrac opened a trap door into a well-appointed guest house. Outside, it had started to snow. To Marius’s relief, Courfeyrac had already started a fire.

“Charming, is it not?” Courfeyrac said, lighting the other lamps. “There’s water and a rag for all that jam, if you’ll give me a moment.”

Not wanting to get anything dirty, Marius sat in one of the rustic wooden chairs and waited pensively. For the first time in weeks, and for the first time since their kiss, the two of them were alone, with no expectation of being disturbed. Courfeyrac had left open the possibility of congress, but was Marius ready for it? Would carnality ruin their friendship?

Had Marius already ruined it with his audacious kiss?

Courfeyrac returned with a bucket and washcloth. “I’ll have to take off the bodice, as it looks like the syrup got everywhere.”

“Luckily, you have experience doing this already.”

“Yes, but not so much as you would think. Sex is a step too far for many, and I never push for what is not truly wanted.” Courfeyrac’s fingers were much gentler than Alexandra’s had been as he removed Marius’s corset and left it on the floor with the bodice. “Intimacy, even love, does not require sex to be consummated.”

Marius looked down at his soiled skirt, unwilling to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes when he felt ashamed of his desire for more. He shivered when Courfeyrac swiped the cold, wet rag over his neck and shoulders, crossing over to clean the syrup which had trickled down his front. “Are you saying that sex is a step too far for you?”

Courfeyrac lightly pressed a finger under Marius’s chin, turning him until they saw eye to eye. “I was worried it was a step too far for _you_. I now think that was a misapprehension. You are very earnest, and tenderhearted, and have not yet experienced much of this greater, meaner world, but these qualities should not always be dismissed as naïveté. I would say that you are pure, except that would be dismissing you again. I concede my categorizations of you. What do you want, Marius? I swear to answer based only on my own inclinations.”

“I would like to kiss you again.”

“I have wanted little else since the first time.”

“You didn’t act like it,” Marius said, rising from his seat. What was he supposed to do about his ruined clothing? Take it off? Kiss Courfeyrac at arm’s length? Was premarital (or extramarital, Marius had to admit) sex so difficult for everyone, or was it just Marius?

“I have been acting the gentleman, as I shall now demonstrate by fixing your current problem.” Courfeyrac unfastened Marius’s skirt, leading Marius into an awkward twirl that left him in nothing but his chemise and pantelettes, with Courfeyrac’s hands around Marius’s waist. Marius scarcely had time to hesitate before Courfeyrac’s lips were on his own. It was nothing like their previous kiss, when Courfeyrac had been cautious and Marius had taken the inexperienced lead. Though Courfeyrac was delicate with Marius at the start, he was quick to deepen the kiss when Marius clumsily tried to respond in kind. The first press of Courfeyrac’s tongue wrenched a shiver out of him.

Courfeyrac withdrew. “Are you cold, my friend?”

“Yes,” Marius replied, and he was, actually.

“One moment.” Courfeyrac briefly disappeared into the back room and returned with a bearskin tossed over his shoulders. He threw it down in front of the fire. “You’ll be warm enough now.”

This was exactly how Marius imagined people made love in Germany. Marius sat down on the bearskin, luxuriating in the thick fur and the warmth of the fire. How savage. When Marius lied back on the fur, he thought back to being a bride on her wedding night. Watching Courfeyrac take off his coat and strip down to his shirt and trousers strengthened the nuptial feeling - that he would no longer be the man he was before coming to Germany.

“Better?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Should I be naked?”

Courfeyrac gave him an appraising look. “I would not object. Should I?”

The bearskin wasn’t quite big enough for Marius to hide under it. “It seems seemly.”

Marius averted his eyes as Courfeyrac stripped, concentrating instead of getting the last of his woman’s garments off. Courfeyrac sat on the edge of the bearskin, the difference in their bodies revealed at last. He had always thought their builds similar; after all, he wore Courfeyrac’s cast-offs with little difficulty. But they seemed so unlike each other now. Courfeyrac’s shoulders were broader, his arms thicker, and though Marius blushed to contemplate it, his thighs considerably manlier. Marius had expected to see nothing new, only his own body reflected back - he had heard that sexual perversion between men was nothing but misdirected narcissism. He couldn’t even remember anymore what he had wanted between them before, now that this truth was in front of him he desired nothing but to learn more about Courfeyrac.

“Do not regret this,” Courfeyrac said, before kissing Marius’s neck and straddling him. Marius couldn’t even think of a proper reply. Courfeyrac was finally close enough to explore, from the dimple on his chin to the trail of dark hair leading between his legs. Resolving himself, Marius reached between them and wrapped his hand around the hardness of Courfeyrac’s sex. Courfeyrac kissed Marius again, but with teeth, thrusting lightly into Marius’s grip. “You move quickly,” Courfeyrac added, shifting his weight to one side so he could bring himself closer.

“This won’t be the only time,” Marius replied, allowing himself to bury his hand in Courfeyrac’s curls. “But perhaps the only time on a dead bear.”

Courfeyrac laughed as he leaned into Marius’s touch. “I will arrange for as many bears as you wish. My family already goes on an annual bear hunt.”

“According to the pornography I’ve translated, you should already be speechless with lust. Am I doing something wrong?” Marius said, trying his best to be arch.

“You are very right, Marius, but allow me to help.” Courfeyrac brought their erections together, entangling his hand with Marius’s as he stroked them both. Marius was thrilled at last not to feel any guilt with his pleasure; their transgression was already too great for one act to make a difference. He wrapped his legs around Courfeyrac, wishing he could somehow embrace his friend even more deeply. Too soon, Marius was spending into Courfeyrac’s hand.

“God, I’m sorry,” Marius said.

Courfeyrac kissed his cheek. “No need. Give me a little more—”

There was a pounding at the door. “Courfeyrac, Marius, I’ve arranged for your escape carriage. Carl is waiting for you,” Alexandra said. “Time is of the essence! The household is looking for the murderer, and they’ll be here soon to find the bride quite alive.”

“We are naked, Alexandra!” Courfeyrac snapped.

“ _Götterdämmerung_ , you better not be on the bearskin!”

“You can afford another one now. I’ll send you a replacement.”

“ _Das ist ein Erbstück!_ ”

With an extremity of restraint, Courfeyrac rose from the bearskin. “We are getting dressed, presently.”

Alexandra draped a heavy cape over them as soon as they exited the guesthouse, leading them at a fast clip towards a carriage. There were torches on the horizon; she hadn’t lied.

“I am happy for you both,” Alexandra said. “You must promise to speak only the best of Prussian intrigue in the future.”

“I prefer your dogs, but yes, it was at least as good as Paris,” Courfeyrac replied.

When the coachman opened the door, Carl was waiting for them on a cushion embroidered with hunting scenes. Courfeyrac reached out to Carl with gladness, but Carl immediately turned his head away and sniffed loudly.

“I don’t even have to feel his neck rolls to know that’s Carl,” Courfeyrac said, wiping a corner of his eye. “But won’t Manfred know he’s lost his dog again?”

“I replaced Carl with a Pekingese. He’ll never notice.”

“Splendid. Allow me to help you into the carriage.”

Though Alexandra raised her eyebrows, she took his hand on her way to her seat. “I have been considering marriage again,” Alexandra said, just as the coachman urged the horses forward.

“Aren’t you already married?” Courfeyrac asked.

Alexandra waved her hand. “I think that when I wish to be respectable, I will come to you.”

Courfeyrac grinned, though Marius felt jealousy building.

“You may be waiting a long time,” Courfeyrac replied.

“Perhaps not so long as you’ll have to wait for me.”

 

* * *

 

When they returned to Paris, there was a letter waiting for them at 16 Rue de la Verrerie.

“Would you mind reading that for me? It’s probably my father gossiping,” Courfeyrac said, rushing to ready the house for Carl again.

The letter, despite its long journey from Germany, still smelt of perfume.

_Dear Courfeyrac,_

_You forgot to take Fritzi with you._

_With respect,_

_Alexandra_

Marius threw the missive into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bearskin was an heirloom, and probably shouldn't have been fucked on, but c'est l'amour. 
> 
> "These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman." — Courfeyrac, probably


	4. a bad end

Alexandra had had a month to brood over the June Rebellion before she received a letter written in Courfeyrac’s hand.

_Dear Alexandra,_

_If you are reading this, I have died for a free France. It was a fate I did not expect, though I have no regrets. I prepared for it nonetheless, ensuring that there were enough letters in circulation to wrap up all my loose ends without me, a trick I learned from my grandfather._

_Though Carl is a dog of great independent character, it is difficult for him to obtain sachertorte without a sponsor. He is currently residing with my landlady, Mme Vermouth. Please return for him one last time. I trust no one more than you for his safekeeping._

_Your affectionate friend,  
Courfeyrac_

She did not cry, though her lip trembled for a moment longer than was Prussian.

“Brunhilda, prepare my traveling trunk.”

 

* * *

 

Paris was largely as Alexandra remembered it, though much of it was still marred by the fighting. It seemed that half the cobblestones on the Rue de la Verrerie had yet to be replaced.

A middle-aged woman with great dignity of bearing and vertical hairstyling opened the door. “Good day, mademoiselle. Would you happen to be looking for some rooms?”

“Are you Mme Vermouth? I am a friend of Courfeyrac’s.”

She smiled ruefully. “You are here for Carl.”

“Yes.”

Mme Vermouth led her up the stairs. Courfeyrac’s rooms had been stripped of most of his belongings - gone with other letters, Alexandra assumed. Carl was sitting on the bottom shelf of an emptied étagère. He kept his moist eyes fixed on Courfeyrac’s traveling boots, which must have been too dirty for anyone to take.

“Has Marius moved out as well?” Alexandra asked.

“He got married. I haven’t seen him since June, when he was injured.”

“Oh. He must’ve met someone as he recovered.”

“No, Marius had been besotted with her for a while.”

Courfeyrac’s boots were caked in mud and filth, as any good pair of boots ought to be. They seemed to be the only evidence of how he had lived. The rest of it had been too desirable to others to remain. She almost jumped when she felt Mme Vermouth’s hand squeezing her shoulder.

“This is how such things ought to go,” Mme Vermouth said. “Courfeyrac was happy for Marius.”

The wedding explained why Carl had to go to her and not to Marius. When had Marius outgrown his feelings - before or after he met the girl?

Did he care to remember Courfeyrac at all?

Mme Vermouth took Carl out of the étagère and kissed the back of his head. “I will miss Carl. He never paid his rent, but he was an otherwise respectable tenant. Have a safe journey, Baroness.”

Carl sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexandra never did become respectable. 
> 
> If you haven't checked in on it yet, please read [acaramelmacchiato's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato%20) wonderful, inspirational fic, [A bad end](http://archiveofourown.org/works/766428), where Carl debuts into this world.


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